Three May Days Three Queens of Henry's heart
by Lady Eleanor Boleyn
Summary: Three different years. Three different May Days. Three different Queens of Henry's heart. Which did he love most? Catalina de Aragon? Anne Boleyn? Mary Boleyn? Why not read and make up your own mind?
1. Catalina de Aragon

Three May Days – Three Queens of Henry's heart 

AN: I had this idea for a series of three one-shots, and I couldn't resist so here they are. I don't own the Tudors, or the 2008 film of the Other Boleyn Girl so please don't sue when you come to that scene. I hope you enjoy! R and R!

_Catalina de Aragón__ - May Day 1509_

The jousting was done, and England's new King, young Henry, or rather, Harry, Tudor, had excelled at the Tilt, besting every challenger who rode against him until even Charles Brandon dared not take up another lance against him, for fear of losing.

Harry, flushed with triumph at the success of his exertions, rode a lap of honour with his love's favour, the favour of the Spanish Princess, Catalina, clear for all to see.

He rode up to the stands, leapt off his horse down into the Royal Pavilion, grabbed his sweetheart tightly by the waist, and pressed a hard passionate kiss on to her lips, not caring that they were in public. Catalina, for her part, giggled and blushed like a love-struck maiden, despite the fact that she was five years Harry's senior. She kissed him back, murmuring "So you are back, mi querido. Back safe in my arms. Shall we have a banquete to celebrate?"

"A banquet, Catalina? Wouldn't it be a shame to waste this glorious day, my love?" Harry looked puzzled, for in her excitement, Catalina had reverted to her native tongue of Castilian, saying banquete instead of its English equivalent. Now she wrinkled her brow and struggled for the English.

"No, no un banquete, un picnic. Un Picnic en el bosque. In the woods, Harry. A picnic in the woods."

"Yes! What a wonderful idea! A picnic it is, Catalina." The young King was mighty pleased with the idea, and within the hour, the King, with the future Queen riding pillion behind him, had set out on his favourite hunter, galloping for the hidden clearing that had been designated as the picnic spot on this particular trip.

Fifty favoured courtiers thundered behind them, listening to the Spanish Princess's stifled shrieks of delight with knowledgeable, indulgent smiles.

They feasted on quails, on rabbits, on swan and on salmon, before moving on to the sweetmeats – the sugared plums, the honeycakes, the freshly ripe peaches fresh from Her Highness's homeland of Granada, and the almonds bound together with honey and icing sugar, another Spanish dish.

Then Harry, with a nod to the musicians, leapt to his feet, and held out his hand to the Spanish Princess, requesting the honour of a dance.

"Naturalmente, su Majestad. I mean, certainly, Your Majesty." The Princess stumbled over the words, before flushing crimson. Harry laughed at her discomfort, and led her to the centre of the floor, where they began to dance together, an intricate country dance where they went hand to hand and stood close together, his arm around her waist as their legs flicked in and out, crisscrossing their own and each other's.

As the last notes died away, Harry pulled Princess Catalina back to lean against his chest and murmured "Happy May Day, Catalina. My Catalina. My Queen of the May."

In a delicious moment for her, Catalina found the lover's response. "I am no Queen, Harry. No tiene una corona. I have no – no crown."

"Then we must give you one." Harry leant down and picked up a clumsily woven crown of daisies and cherry blossoms. He removed her hood, set it on her head and kissed her lightly.

"Happy, _Queen _Catalina?" he asked her, and she nodded, eyes dancing with mirth, as he picked her up and twirled her around, whispering "I love you, Catalina. I loved you the first time I set eyes on you, remember? When I came to escort you to London for my brother's wedding. I loved you then and I love you now. One day, one day soon, we will be married, won't we?"

"Yes, but Harry?"

"Yes, Catalina? What is it?"

"Can you teach me your native language?"

Catalina flushed a deep shade of crimson. Harry chuckled fondly.

"Yes, Catalina. When we are married, I shall teach you English myself, and we shall love each other for eternity, shall we not?"

"Yes. Yes! Para todo el tiempo." She promised, and he laughed at her exuberance, and swept her off the dance floor, back towards the horses.

The last anyone saw of the King and the Spanish Princess that night was their silhouettes, as they rode their horse away through the trees, galloping into the rapidly deepening dusk.


	2. Mary Boleyn

_Marianne Boleyn__ - May Day 1523 _

Harry, disguised as Robin of Nottingham, rowed out with a party of his favourite gentlemen to rescue the ladies of the Queen's Court, trapped as they were on the Thames by a group of courtiers disguised as French brigands.

Over the shouts and laughter, and the boom of the ingenious little cannon that was enabling the Merry Men to win their battles, he glanced at the Royal Barge, seeking out his sweetheart's eyes. He wanted to make sure she was watching him triumph over these rascals.

Where _was_ she? There, sitting on the Queen's left, her gown of emerald velvet thoroughly splashed, her French hood slightly askew as she threw back her head and laughed at the merry scene before her.

Harry bent and plucked a white rose from the roses woven around the edge of the boat. Standing upright, he caught her eye and smiled his reckless, impish, promising smile, throwing her the rose he held in his hand.

Mary Carey nee Boleyn caught it, and called out to him as a rosy blush crept up her cheeks.

"I thank you, Lord Robin, but where is Maid Marian?"

"You are my Maid Marian!" he called back, enjoying the mixture of embarrassment and delight that presented itself so clearly on her face.

An hour later, as the barges landed at York Place, Harry took Mary's soft hand in his, and escorted her into the dining hall, bending to touch his lips to the rose where she had tucked it into her hood.

"Happy May Day, Lady Carey."

"Happy May Day, Your Majesty." she whispered, her voice music to his ears.

They feasted late into the night, and then they rose and danced, danced country dances as a tribute to the May. Mary giggled like a child, and spun under Harry's careful hand as though she had not a care in the world, as though Catalina de Aragón, the woman he had married and sworn everlasting love to, was not watching their every move with that keen gaze of hers which was so typical of the House of Trastamara.

Later, after the rest of the Court had retired, Harry sat waiting. A tap at the door, a slight push, and it was open. Open to reveal her, Marianne Boleyn. His Boleyn girl. His darling. His beloved.

"Mary." It was all he said, but the desire was evident in his voice. She heard it, and slightly afraid, she drew back from it.

"No. No, Mary. I won't hurt you. Just come to me. Come closer." He seduced her with his voice, seduced her so that she stepped into the room a little and shut the door behind her. In an instant, he was beside her, sweeping her up in his arms, and carrying her to the bed, raining kisses down upon her all the while.

She giggled in a rush of nervous delight, and murmured "Oh, Henry. Oh my sweet Lord Robin."

"Yes, Mary? Sweet Mary?" he whispered almost lazily, remembering how she had looked the first time he singled her out, the first time she captured his attentions, and again tonight, when he had kept her back from Catalina's ladies, and seated her on the Queen's throne. A look of enchanting disbelief, as though she dared not try to understand how high her star was rising. As he glanced at her through half-closed eyes, he realised that she looked like that now.

"If you bed me so wantonly, what will Maid Marian think?"

"You are my Maid Marian." he repeated, rising above her to kiss her forehead. "You are my Maid Marian and I adore you."

As he completed his sentence, he thrust himself inside her, and had the satisfaction of hearing her gasp as he took his pleasure and indulged his sensuality.

Their love had been perfected.


	3. Anne Boleyn

_Anne Boleyn -__ May Day 1526_

Slipping away from Catalina, Harry made his way to the gardens. She was waiting for him, as he knew she would be.

"Anne." He would have pressed his lips to hers ardently, but she pulled back, and helf out her hand instead. He kissed her palm reluctantly, then stepped half a pace away from her. Surely now she would yield. He had worn her favour at the joust, he had danced with her almost incessantly, and he had watched the children's tableau with her at his side. He had even sent her sister, his former mistress, to Hever to spend the summer with her children, leaving her as the only Boleyn girl at Court. What more could the girl want?

"Your sister is gone. As you wished. Now will you give yourself to me, Anne?" he pleaded.

Still she shook her head. "No, Henry. Not until you are loyal to me. Loyal to me, and me alone. Above _all_ others."

"I am!" he protested. Anne shook her head firmly.

"No. You may think you are. But really, you are loyal to the Queen above all others."

What?! This was preposterous. He scarcely _saw_ Catalina any more!

"Anne, please! I scarcely see her!"

"Yet she still sits at your side on a throne. At your right hand in matters of state. I do not."

"For appearance's sake only, Anne, I swear. She means nothing to me now."

"Still, she is your Queen, and ever present. I feel her eyes on me, Henry. And those of her spies. Look at us, for God's sake. Meeting in secret. Talking in whispers." Anne sniffed disdainfully before she continued. "It's hardly conducive to passion."

Harry looked around them. Now that he came to think of it, Anne was right. They had to get away from the Court. Go somewhere they could give free rein to their desires.

His imagination was fired, and he could scarcely pay attention to what Anne said next.

"I thought Tudors were hunting men."

"We are!" he exclaimed, determinedly suppressing the memories of his father and his elder brother, Arthur, neither of whom had particularly enjoyed riding out with the hunt.

"I thought hunting men enjoyed the passion of the catch."

"We do. But the thrill of the chase is just as good to us, Lady Anne." he replied,

wondering what she was going to suggest next.

All of a sudden, she shrieked "Let's see how well you can catch me then, Your Majesty!" and ducked away under his arm.

With a great bellow of mirth, he was after her.

He caught her, as she intended he should. He caught her up in his arms and whispered "Ride with me, Lady Anne. Ride with me away from the Court."

She did. They galloped away through the woods, until they reached the clearing where, seventeen years before, he had sworn everlasting love to his wife and Queen, the Spanish Princess Catalina.

He helped Anne from her horse, and twirled her in his arms, until they were both reeling with dizziness.

Then they collapsed on the ground, Anne's dark hair spread out on his lap, and talked while the moon began to rise in the sky, and give everything a eerie sense of dangerous beauty.

In that moment, Harry knew what he would have to do to gain Anne's favour to such an extent that she would give herself to him. He would have to marry her and make her Queen.

He turned her on his lap so that she was looking up at him, wove his fingers into her raven tresses, and whispered "I will marry you, Anne. I swear it. I will marry you and make you Queen."

She looked up at him.

"Make me Queen?"

"Aye. You will be hailed as Queen Anne Boleyn. Queen Anne Boleyn of England, France and Ireland. How do you like that, sweetheart?"

"Your Majesty, I like it very well indeed." Anne tipped her face up towards him invitingly. Harry leaned in, and for once, Anne did not pull away. His lips found hers, and there, beneath the silvery moon, they kissed for the first time.


End file.
